It wasn’t until Georgia paid for her nails, left a generous tip, and exited the salon that she realized she’d heard the name “Tunick” before. But where? She tried to dig it out of her memory, but it wouldn’t come. She’d have to wait for it to bubble up from her subconscious. Nonetheless, it was apparent Zoya was caught up with Chad Coe in some kind of operation that involved black market babies, adoptions, and maybe more, although Georgia didn’t want to think about the “more.” She was making progress.
She slipped into her car and ran her palms around the steering wheel. It was almost two, the time that Zoya got off. She slouched in the front seat, trying to be invisible, but angled the rearview mirror so she could see the salon’s back door. A minute later Zoya emerged, talking into her cell. She got into her dark red Impala. She didn’t appear to notice Georgia.
Georgia let her drive around to the street, then started up her Toyota. When Zoya turned right out of the lot, Georgia waited a moment before following her. Zoya headed to the Tri-State and swung down the ramp to the highway. Georgia did the same, making sure to keep a couple of car lengths behind. As they headed north a few snowflakes drifted down. Georgia felt a spit of annoyance. She didn’t need snow now. But God, or Mother Nature, or whoever, wasn’t listening, and lazy, fat, wet flakes kept drifting down. She switched on her wipers and hunched over the wheel. She also turned on her GPS so she’d know where she was in case visibility worsened.
Just north of Libertyville Zoya turned off the expressway and headed northwest on Route 173. Route 173 was where the body of the pregnant girl from Kansas City was found, albeit forty miles farther west. A burst of energy kicked up Georgia’s spine.
The snow escalated into a full-fledged storm. The wind picked up too, swirling the snow in irregular eddies across her windshield, reducing visibility to nearly nothing. In a way, that was good—Zoya would be so focused on her driving she might not notice Georgia behind her. Georgia blasted her front and rear defrosters. Trucks coughed up slush as they passed in the other direction, making the drive more miserable. Only a couple of weeks had passed since she drove up and ran into Jimmy, but it seemed longer. Winter had a way of distorting time, elongating the minutes, hours, and days.
When Zoya continued past McHenry, perhaps the most far-flung town from which people still commuted into Chicago, Georgia almost turned back. Traffic was already sluggish and would be snarled soon. She could tail Zoya another time. The gloom from the storm cast a faux purple twilight over everything, and she was weary of driving.
Then she spotted a road sign that said Harvard was only thirty miles ahead. Georgia sat up, all thoughts of abandoning the surveillance banished. She was now directly behind Zoya, but the woman still didn’t seem to notice. She’d made no moves to elude Georgia, although in this weather, who would?
It took almost an hour to get to Harvard. Georgia checked her GPS as they entered the town. They were less than a mile from where the girl had been found. As they reached the center of town, Georgia expected Zoya to turn off the main road, but the woman surprised her and kept heading west. Georgia squinted through her windshield. Did Zoya know Georgia was pursuing her? Was she leading Georgia on a wild-goose chase through the snow?
Georgia drew back and let Zoya get so far ahead that she almost missed the turn. They had just driven through the small town of Chemung and then Capron, ten miles west of Harvard, when Zoya made a left. The snow obliterated the street signs, and the road was unidentified on the GPS. The only thing Georgia knew was that she had crossed from McHenry into Boone County. She followed, barely able to make out the car’s taillights in the distance. A mile or so later, Zoya made another turn into what appeared to be deep farm country, although the blanket of snow hid the remnants of what was likely soy beans, hay, or corn.
Zoya drove faster, as if she was tethered to a homing device. Georgia momentarily lost sight of her. She sped up too, although her Toyota was not good in snow and she was nervous about plowing into a tree or fence post. The road deteriorated; underneath it seemed to be pitted with stones. She passed a field littered with rusted farm equipment, now partially covered in white. Finally she picked up Zoya’s taillights in time to watch her make a left. Georgia reached the spot a moment later and was about to follow her when she realized she’d be turning onto a private driveway. Trees bowed under snow lined both sides of the drive, their stripped and wiry branches swinging in gusts of wind. A weak light shone at the other end of the drive, maybe a hundred yards away. A farmhouse. Or a barn. Or both. And this driveway was the only way in.
Georgia put the Toyota in park and watched the sedan pull all the way up to the light. The Impala stopped; its red taillights winked out. She heard the faint thump of a car door closing. Georgia got out and snapped some photos with her smartphone to mark the location.